The Fight That Will Give You The Right To Be Free
by Roderica Edelstein
Summary: The Allies meet up for one last drink on the eve of World War Two to gather their courage and toast freedom, but everyone has more than just the upcoming conflict on his mind, and 'freedom' means something different to each of them. Rated mainly for England's language and a shed-load of angsty stuff. Human names used, and at least two yaoi pairings involved. PLEASE READ AND REVIEW!
1. The Song of Angry Men

**A/N: So, this is the first chapter in the first fic of a songfic series I'm planning on writing centred on WW2. (This one bears little resemblance to 'Do You Hear The People Sing', but oh well.) When I started writing this, it was going to be a oneshot, but I've decided to split it into chapters because it was getting kind of long. This chapter belongs to Yao, who definitely needs some anger-management classes. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia, etc.**

_Do you hear the people sing?_

_Singing a song of angry men?_

_It is the music of a people_

_Who will not be slaves again!_

The four blonds gathered around the bar look up as a slight, dark-haired man storms into the room. One of them laughs at the expression of fury on the newcomer's face and calls out, "Hey, Yao, you look like you could use a drink." Yao nods grimly, and the blond signals to the barman for another round. When he turns back to Yao his mouth falls open in shock. "Dude, what happened to your _arm_?" The limb in question in cradled in a sling.

Yao doesn't answer, but marches over to the bar and slides onto a stool at the end, as far away from the speaker as possible. The man sitting next to the one who has spoken turns to his neighbour and hisses, "You bloody wanker, can't you see he doesn't want to talk about it? You always were a tactless, interfering little git, Alfred." Yao can tell, though, that he's just as desperate as Alfred to know the answer to the question.

"Hey! That's not fair –" Alfred pauses, then adds, "_Artie_."

It has the desired effect. "Don't call me that!" the older man shrieks, and the two descend into squabbling, much to the amusement of the long-haired blond sitting between Arthur and Yao.

But Yao pays no attention to the brothers' bickering. Ignoring his companions, he drinks deeply from the beer that's been set in front of him, then – placing the nearly-empty glass down on the counter – scans the room anxiously. _Why isn't he here yet? There should be six of us._ He shifts on his stool; the movement causes a sharp jolt of pain to shoot through his broken arm, and he yelps involuntarily.

His long-haired neighbour turns to him in concern. "The pain is bad, mon ami?" When Yao doesn't answer he leans in close and whispers, "So, how did it happen?"

_You nosy bastard, Bonnefoy._ But to give no answer would look suspicious; he'll have to come up with something. _Think, Yao, think._ "I…I got into a fight. With Kiku," he mutters, feeling his cheeks grow hot as he avoids Francis' eyes. He can feel the other man looking at him, silently assessing the injury, the bruises on his face and neck. _Say it, then. You might as well._

When he risks a glance at the other man, though, Francis just raises an eyebrow, then smiles. "I see."

"What'd you do that for, Francis?" Arthur asks in consternation. He leans over to apologise for Francis' prying; the ingratiating smile on his face sickens Yao. "Look, I'm really sorry –"

_Oh no you're not. You're just as nosy as the rest of them._ Yao cuts him off. "I don't need you to defend me, Opium. I can look after myself."

The second it's out of his mouth he realises what a stupid thing that was to say, and he curses inwardly. Sure enough, Arthur – looking wounded at the 'Opium' dig – shoots back, "Oh, can you really? Because that arm suggests otherwise. Honestly, Yao, if you can't even manage to beat your own little brother in a fair fight, I fail to see what possible use you could be to us as an ally."

Yao springs to his feet, slamming his glass down on the counter so hard that it shatters and sends the remains of his drink splashing onto Francis' coat. In the ensuing shocked silence, Arthur remarks drily, "Someone's going to have to pay for that,"; whether he means the beerglass or the coat, Yao doesn't know, and he's too angry to care. He opens his mouth to scream at them all, at the whole collection of idiots he's stupid enough to be allied with – but the sudden thought of the one who isn't there stops him short. _He'd never lose it like this. He knows that anger isn't strength; he's so strong – the strongest of any of us – and yet he's usually so calm. _Yao sighs, and sits down again, feeling foolish. The others stare at him, surprised that the expected outburst isn't forthcoming.

"Just look at us," he says quietly. "Anyone would think we were going to war against each other tomorrow, instead of as allies." He notices that Arthur has the grace to look ashamed. _Good._ Sitting down again, he asks, "Speaking of allies, does anyone know where Braginski's got to?" It feels odd to Yao to refer to him in that way, but he knows that to call him 'Ivan' would probably seem strange to the others. _First names are for friends, after all, and as far as they know, Ivan, you and I have never been especially close._

There is an uncomfortable pause in which Arthur looks at Francis, Francis looks at Alfred, and Alfred looks back at his elder brother; no-one speaks for what seems like an eternity. Finally, there is a cough from the far corner, and a small voice says, "Y-you mean you don't know?"

Yao stares at Matthew Williams in horror. "What? What should I know? What's happened?" The panic is clearly audible in his voice; he tries to calm himself down before the others notice. He doesn't want their probing questions about why he's so concerned for Ivan, can't stand the thought of the teasing that would inevitably follow. "Please, somebody tell me what's going on." It's no use; his heart is racing, his voice shaking with fear. "Is he – is he OK?" _Ivan – if anything's happened to you – _

Arthur lets out a bitter laugh. "He won't be when I've finished with him, the bastard."

Relief and confusion and annoyance mingle in Yao's mind. "I don't understand. What's he done?"

This time it is Alfred who speaks. "Dude, you mean you _seriously_ don't know? I thought you would have found out first." _I've had other things on my mind these past few weeks,_ Yao thinks angrily. Alfred exchanges a desperate glance with his companions, then shrugs. "I guess someone has to say it. Braginski's joined up with your brother."

_No. It can't be._ "They're allies?" Yao says weakly. _A joke. It's just a joke._

Alfred looks embarrassed. "Um, more than allies, actually, if you catch my drift," he admits.

The truth hits Yao with the force of a physical blow, and he has to grip the bar with his good hand to stop himself from collapsing. He doesn't even notice that a shard of broken glass has sliced into his palm; that pain is nothing to the pain filling his body at Alfred's words. _Why? WHY? Of all the people you could have chosen – you, Kiku, you little bastard, going after the one person I care about…I bet you _knew_, didn't you? And you, Ivan, picking _him _ of all people, the one who's hurt me worst of all, betrayed me more times than I can bear to remember…_

_Ivan, why?_ He almost cries it aloud, beyond caring now whether or not the others will work out his feelings for Ivan. He wants to scream that unanswerable question at the walls, wants to turn something – or someone – else into the broken ragdoll he has too often let himself become at the hands of the traitor who has stolen Ivan from his grasp. But what emerges, finally, is not a roar but a whimper. "Kiku, you b-bastard…"

Yao doesn't even realise he is crying until Francis lays a hand on his shoulder and suggests, not unkindly, that he go to wash his face. "Matthieu, maybe you should take him, make sure he's alright. And – oh mon dieu, Yao, your _hand…_"

He sees for the first time that the cut on his palm is bleeding heavily; he still can't feel it, though. Shakily, he straightens up and takes a step to follow Matthew – then he stops, and turns to face his remaining allies. "So, we're fighting without I- without Braginski?" Blood spatters the floor as he clenches his hand into a fist. "So be it. We're still going to fight, and we're still going to win. There is an evil out there that must be crushed." _An evil none of you recognise._

As he follows Matthew out of the room, he vows, _Ivan, I'm going to get you away from him, whatever it takes. And Kiku?_ His fist clenches tighter at the memory of all the wrong done to him by the man he calls brother, the one he has raised alone for so many years only to see him turn into…he can only call him a monster. The physical scars may fade, but he knows that the pain of each betrayal will stay as fresh as it was when first inflicted.

_Little brother, I'm going to make you pay._

**So what did you think? I know, I know, I'm messing with the history - Russia was never part of the Axis (in fact the Anti-Comintern Pact, which kind of extended the Rome-Berlin Axis to Japan, was an anti-Communist and therefore anti-Russian thing). But he DID sign the Nazi-Soviet Pact with Germany, which is my excuse for taking him out of the Allies until 1941 and for sticking some Rupan in there. So no flames on grounds of historical inaccuracy...please? *makes puppy eyes at reader*  
**

**Oh, and about Japan - I think in this universe he may be schizophrenic, just to warn you :) (So I can blame the bad stuff on Dark Japan and still have him as my favourite character...)**

**Sorry for the huge note! Please, if you've got this far, at least leave me a review, 'kay?**


	2. The Beating of Your Heart

**A/N: This here is Arthur's chapter. Enjoy!  
**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia, etc.  
**

_When the beating of your heart_

_Echoes the beating of the drums_

_There is a life about to start_

_When tomorrow comes!_

"What the heck was that all about?" Alfred wonders aloud. The three men look at each other, puzzled; they are used to Yao's outbursts by now, of course, but this seems somehow different.

Finally, Arthur clears his throat. "Let's get this mess cleaned up," he says, gesturing to the small pool of blood, beer and broken glass left in Yao's empty place at the counter. The barman appears at that moment with a damp cloth and a dustpan and brush, which he hands to an apologetic Arthur with a disapproving look before disappearing back behind the bar.

Arthur turns to his younger brother. "Here you go, _Alfie_," he smiles, pushing the dustpan and brush over to him. "Knock yourself out."

"Hey! You know I hate being called that," Alfred whines. "And anyway, it's not fair. You were the one who pushed him into it, dude." He folds his arms, scowling.

"Give it a rest, you little git. Just get on with it, will you? Or is poor baby Alfie scared of a little blood?"

Muttering darkly, Alfred seizes the dustpan and brush and begins sweeping up the fragments of glass. Francis, meanwhile, is looking thoughtfully at Arthur. "Something wrong, _mon cher?_"

"No-no...I'm fine, Francis...really..." But Alfred's remark has left him shaken. _You were the one who pushed him into it._ Because he knows it's true; he goaded Yao into losing his temper, made those snide remarks when he could see that Yao was already upset. _Why did I do that? He's my ally, unlike certain other bastards I could name, so what reason did I have to pick on him? Well, he did call me 'Opium', so..._ He tries to convince himself that his behaviour was only a reaction to Yao's insult. _Yes, of course, that's right. I made him angry because he pissed me off first. Makes sense._ But the reasoning rings hollow, and Arthur is uneasy.

Francis hasn't stopped watching him questioningly. Arthur flashes him a quick smile, and realises that the right sleeve of Francis' blue coat is still damp with spilt drink. "Here, Francis, let me get that," he offers, and begins to dab at the material with the cloth he's been given. A moment later, though, Francis lays a hand on his. "Come on, _mon cher._ Tell me what's troubling you."

_How can I when I don't even know myself?_ This heaviness of heart, this creeping sense of dread – they are feelings for which Arthur has no explanation, or at least not one he can face up to. He bows his head, avoiding Francis' eyes, and – too quietly for his brother to hear – whispers the only thing he can be sure is true. "I'm afraid, Francis." Of what, he isn't sure.

He feels Francis' hands move to his shoulders, pull Arthur gently towards him. So gently. As gently as –

Arthur stops himself. _That's finished now. Over. No use thinking about it, _he tells himself harshly. Instead, he rests his cheek against Francis' chest, trying to relax into the other man's embrace. He can feel Francis' heartbeat, strong and steady, its rhythm twinned with his own; it should be reassuring, but all he can think of is how soon the beats could be cut off, silenced forever. _Come tomorrow, one of us could fall._ Just like that. "Afraid?" murmurs Francis in his ear. "_Moi aussi, mon cher. Moi aussi_. This war...it's not going to be easy." Francis starts to run a hand lightly through Arthur's hair, seeking to comfort him. _How easy it would be to pretend that the war's all that's scaring me, _ Arthur thinks to himself._ To pretend that all I'm afraid of is this outside evil. To pretend that I'm just afraid to die, like you, like Yao, like everyone else._

_But it would still only be pretending._

Contemplating the bloodshed to come in the dark days ahead, Arthur feels only revulsion, regret that once more it has come to this. There is fear too, but for his comrades, not for himself; the terror that grips him when he thinks of tomorrow has nothing to do with his own fate. As a soldier, Arthur knows that he needs fear to survive – but the thought of his own death fills him with none of the emotions it should. _Dear God, _he realises, _I don't care. I don't care whether I live or die_.

He cares about the others, though. Yao and Arthur have had their differences – and tonight's been no exception – but the thought of losing Yao to a German bomb or an Italian bullet hurts, and he knows he'll do everything in his power to protect his ally. More painfull still is the thought of losing Francis, the one who's brought him through the difficult months since...no, he can't afford to remember that. He draws Francis closer to him to ward off – what? The pain he feels at the image of Francis' death? Thoughts of the event that threw him into Francis' arms in the first place? _If I never let him go, maybe it won't happen. Maybe I won't have to be alone again... _The man who holds him kisses the top of his head and strokes his hair again; it's what Francis usually does to calm him down, and he wonders why he is doing it now. Then Arthur realises that he is shaking.

Yes, it hurts to think of losing Francis, of never again having these welcoming arms to receive him or this soft smile to comfort him. But it doesn't hurt as much as it should. _I could survive it, I know. And I shouldn't feel like that about someone I love, should I? Your death should mean the end of my world, Francis, and yet..._And yet there is someone else whose imagined death fills him with the agony that Francis' should; picturing Francis broken on the battlefield brings him deep sadness, but it hurts far more to think of – _NO. Stop right there, Arthur Kirkland. You can't think about _him, _you've got Francis now. Isn't that enough?_

To stop himself from answering that question he lifts his head and – after quickly checking that the barman isn't around to see them – kisses Francis suddenly on the mouth; it is a hard, desperate kiss that takes the other man completely by surprise. After a moment, though, Francis recovers and leans into the kiss, pulls Arthur onto his lap.

Arthur doesn't hear his brother making gagging noises behind them, and he doesn't hear the childish cry of, "Get a _room, _you two!" He doesn't notice Alfred flicking at the pair of them with the discarded cloth, either. He doesn't notice because he is drowning. Not in the kiss, though – or at least not in Francis' kiss. What swamps him is the flood of memories that the contact prompts; his eyes are tightly closed, but that doesn't stop the tidal wave of images.

Images of the one whose hands were gentler even than Francis' and whose kisses were a hundred times sweeter, because they meant something to him. Images of the one who left him for the enemy.

It's easy enough now for him to see why he was so cruel to Yao earlier. _A fight, he said. A fight with his brother. Liar. The man I know would never hurt him like that._

Overwhelmed, he breaks off the kiss, tears in his eyes. They are tears of guilt for what he has not left behind and regret for what he has, but Francis mistakes them for fear. He takes Arthur's face in his hands and murmurs, "_Je t'aime, Arthur mon cher."_

"I love you too," Arthur whispers back. As long as he doesn't say Francis' name, it is not a lie. He completes the sentence truthfully in his mind. It's one he has said far too few times in the past, and one he knows he will never say out loud again.

_I love you too, Kiku Honda._


	3. Be Strong

**A/N: Alfred's turn for a chapter now. Warning: glaring OOCness ahead, and absolutely no kittens, rainbows or happy campers.  
**

**Disclaimer: Have forgotten whether or not I'm supposed to state IN EVERY CHAPTER that I don't own Hetalia, so I'm just doing it to be on the safe side. **

_Will you join in our crusade?_

_Who will be strong and stand with me?_

_Beyond the barricade_

_Is there a world you long to see?_

Alfred looks up to see that Yao has come back into the room – oh, and so has his brother, of course. Francis and Arthur are still sticking their tongues down each other's throats; he leans round them and mimes sticking two fingers down his own, but Matthew doesn't smile. In fact, he looks pretty grim, which annoys Alfred. _Dude, cheer up! C'mon, bro. Tonight was supposed to be fun! A party!_ He'd shout across the bar at Matthew, but he doesn't fancy setting Yao off again. _Seriously, what's with the long face? It's not like we're the ones who have to get up tomorrow to fight. At least Yao has an excuse for that grumpy face of his. _(The dark-haired man is still scowling.) _Jeez, Mattie, come on. Lighten up a bit!_

But Matthew doesn't even look at him as he heads back over to the bar and takes his place next to Alfred's now-empty one. Alfred realises guiltily that he is still standing in Yao's space, and that he hasn't finished cleaning up, either. Quickly, he sweeps the last few pieces of glass into the pan and tips them into the bin by the bar, then wipes the rest of the blood off the counter. _Stupid Artie…_Seeing that the lovebirds have finally broken apart, he chucks the bloody cloth into Arthur's lap for good measure. To his disappointment, Arthur's only reaction – except to pick up the offending article and deposit it in front of Alfred on the counter – is a muttered 'wanker'.

Yao shoots Alfred a sullen look as they return to their respective places. _Seriously, what's with you guys tonight?_ he thinks, disgruntled. Then he takes another swig from his beer and – ignoring Arthur's expression of disgust – belches in satisfaction. Life is pretty good now, he reflects. Of course it sucks that Artie and Francis and Yao have to go off and fight tomorrow – _especially since they'll probably have one heck of a hangover,_ he grins to himself – but he has no doubt that they'll be just fine. _Yeah, they don't need me, they'll manage. They were all doing fine before I came along and they'll be fine after I've gone. In fact...they'll probably be better off..._

_Dude, stop it,_ he tells himself. He can't think like that. _Today's been a good day. Don't spoil it now._ But of course it's already too late; the familiar heaviness is settling over his heart, and his earlier happiness is draining away, leaving only the aching sense of emptiness to which he has become resigned. Desperately craving the one moment of satisfaction he knows it will bring – one moment before he slips completely under the cloud – he reaches for his glass again, but he realises as he picks it up that it is empty. He stares at it for a second, as if he doesn't quite understand; then, slowly, he places it back down on the counter. His entire focus has narrowed to the glass; it seems to Alfred unforgivably unfair that it should be empty, when all he needs – surely – is one more sip to bring himself back from the edge of the dark, to stave off the pain for a little while longer. _Please..._

Yao leans across Francis and Arthur, a half-smile on his bruised face. "You look," he says pointedly to Alfred, "like you could use a drink." And this time it's Alfred who nods silently, who shoots Arthur a look of gratitude as his brother calls the bartender over again. He knows, though, that he can't afford this drink; when the time comes to split the bill – before they all go their separate ways, preparing for tomorrow – he'll have to make his excuses. That won't go down well with Arthur or Francis, of that much he is sure. _I'm not the only one here who's broke, after all._

What makes it worse is knowing that his older brother's money worries – and Francis' too – are partly due to his own irresponsibility. _Just another example of my utter uselessness..._

In a vain attempt to dispel the cloud hanging over him, he takes a long drink from the glass that's been pushed his way. "Thirsty, are we?" smirks Arthur. "You do realise you've drunk twice as much as anyone else here, don't you?"

Although it's the last thing in the world that he feels like doing, Alfred forces himself to grin. "Yeah, well, that's just because you're all lightweights – especially you, bro. Sure you should be drinking at all? I mean, you've got _work_ in the morning..."

But his attempt at humour is met with glares from Arthur and Yao, while Francis says softly, "Mon ami, don't joke about something you don't understand."

That riles Alfred (but then any emotion, even anger, is better than none at all, since it fills a little – not much, but at least a little – of the awful emptiness inside him). "Dude, don't give me that. I helped you out last time, didn't I?" _Don't tell me I don't understand war. Just because I may have gotten off lightly twenty-two years ago – in comparison to you guys, anyway – doesn't mean I know nothing of the suffering it brings. I've seen too many men die already – and they all died protecting me. Why do you think I'm staying out of it this time around?_

Francis' only reply is a sad shake of the head; Arthur jumps in to support his lover with, "You know that's not the same thing at all, you git. 'Helped out'? Yeah, for about two weeks before the war ended." He snorts derisively.

_Not two weeks. Two _years,_ Arthur. The worst two years of my life._ But his brother isn't done yet. "Even then, it was only because Beilschmidt took a swing at you." He doesn't add 'and about time too', but Alfred can tell that Arthur is thinking it.

Fearing that the brothers are about to come to blows, Francis turns hastily to Alfred and asks, "Are you sure you won't join us, cher Alfred? It might be..." – he winks – "_fun._" That remark – or possibly the 'cher' – earns him a clip around the ear from Arthur, who looks less than impressed by Francis' apology (a kiss on the cheek). Yao clearly isn't happy with the flippancy of the comment, either, but he says nothing, just continues to glower.

Alfred, meanwhile, is confused and hurt. _Why is it OK for you guys to joke about this stuff, but not for me to? How is that fair?_ He realises that everyone is waiting for an answer to Francis' question – and he very nearly gives in. The thought of following his friends into battle, of throwing himself into the fighting so there is no room in his mind for this pain; the thought of giving his own life to save those he cares about, of being the hero, the martyr, finally able to find peace (or at least oblivion) in the deadly kiss of a rifle or a shell...It is tempting. So tempting. But he knows it isn't an option; too many people depend on him to keep them safe. He wouldn't only be risking his own life, he'd be risking theirs, too. _And besides, someone has to look after Mattie. I couldn't just leave him._

Alfred shakes his head. "Nah, I'll pass. I'm with you all the way, guys, but...I've got my own shit to worry about." _Oh, great. Fucking great. Just listen to yourself. Arthur's obnoxious little brother strikes again – far too selfish to get his hands dirty in a poxy little fight like the battle to defend democracy when there's his oh-so-important _personal _life to sort out first..._ And of course Arthur, true to form, doesn't let it go. "Well, at least _that_ problem should be easy enough to deal with, since you've got your head so far up your own backside you can probably _see_ your own shit, you bloody wanker." There are appreciative laughs from Francis and Yao, and even Matthew cracks a smile.

It's that smile that does it. Matthew's reaction confirms what he has feared all along: there is a line which separates him from the others, a line he cannot cross because he cannot stop himself from acting this way. _I'm the pest, the clown , the jerk they can't get rid of. They all hate me. Even my brothers – no, _especially_ my brothers. And the only person I can blame for that is myself._ The cloud above him finally bursts, and suddenly he is staring at a future in which the sun will never show its face again. _Oh, God. Nothing's ever going to change, is it? _he realises in horror. _This is all my life will ever amount to. Waking up every day dreading this pain, never being truly happy because it's always there, waiting to strike. Always. Because in their eyes, all I'm ever going to be is _that bloody wanker Alfred F. Jones.

There's only one way to soothe the pain, to push the cloud away for a little while. Well, two ways. _But I can't afford to get roaring drunk, and anyway it'll only make things worse in the long run._ There's only one way that _works,_ that has always worked.

He fakes a laugh. "Fair point, bro. I guess that did sound a little selfish!" He reaches up as if to rub his eye, but instead manages to dislodge his spectacles, which fall into the bin next to his stool. "Oops..."

"Don't tell me you're _actually drunk_!" exclaims Arthur in astonishment as Alfred reaches in to retrieve them; it is unheard of for the elder of the two brothers to remain sober for longer than his sibling.

Alfred doesn't reply. He's still rummaging for his glasses. Finally, he lifts them out with a cry of, "_There_ you are!" –

- "Talking to his eyewear? _Definitely_ drunk," mutters Arthur –

and slips a hand into his pocket for a tissue. After wiping the glasses clean and sliding them back onto his nose, he stands up and – praying that his voice won't shake and give him away – announces, "Just going to the bathroom, guys. I'll be right back."

_Just keep it together until you're in there,_ he tells himself as he hurries across to the exit. _Be strong. _He knows he can't break down until he's out of sight. _You are NOT gonna drag your brothers into this, Alfred F. Jones. This is your problem and nobody else's._ But only the thought of what he has in his pocket keeps him moving forward – one foot in front of the other, through the door now, down a dim corridor, through another door. _Thank God._ The restroom is deserted. _Only a few more steps now._ Alfred pushes open one of the cubicle doors, stumbles in and locks it behind him.

Then he collapses against the wall of the cubicle and slides slowly to the floor, head in hands, the tears that he has been holding back finally spilling over. He doesn't care that the tiled floor is damp, or that the room stinks. He is aware only of the sobs wracking his whole body, and of the nameless pain in his chest, so bad he can barely breathe. He cries and cries until he throws up, until he is choking for air, until his eyes are dry of tears and there is nothing he can do but slump against the wall, shivering. And still the pain goes on. Desperate, he fumbles in his pocket for the object he pulled out of the bin along with his glasses.

The shard of broken glass glints in his palm.

Alfred rests the glass fragment on his knee while he rolls up his shirtsleeves. There they are, stretching from his upper arms almost to his wrists now: the other marks. Parallel lines, like the rungs of a ladder. The newest ones are still angry and red; the oldest ones are smooth white ridges, healed but not gone even after all this time. This is a ladder of pain that goes back ten years.

His boss told him a decade ago that the pain would pass. _I'd turned the corner already, _he said. _Things were looking up. I was getting better by the day. He kept telling me that. So why hasn't the pain gone away? Why am I still letting down everyone who relies on me? You useless waste of space, Alfred fucking Jones._

He snatches up the glass in his right hand and slashes it across the opposite wrist, quick and deep, reveling in the sharp clear pain of it – such a different pain from the other one, the emptiness which threatens to smother him. Change hands. Now the other wrist, more of a challenge. But he can do it, he knows. He's been here so many times before.

This time, though, it's different. This time the bit of glass slips from his fingers; his right hand is slick with blood, and he can't hold on. _There's too much blood. There shouldn't be this much. What's going on?_ He stares at his wrist in fascination; the original cut it obscured by the blood flowing freely from it. _You moron, that was too deep. Now look what you've done._

But the heaviness over his heart hasn't lifted, and he knows it won't until he finishes the job – so what else is there to be done? Carefully, he picks up the shard again, steadies it against his left wrist, and _pulls._ Relief floods through him as the ache in his chest – ousted by this fresh burst of pain – finally abates. Relief – followed by utter exhaustion. He lets his head fall forwards onto his chest, lets his eyelids droop. _Can't go back... until... the bleeding's stopped...anyway. May as well...rest here for a bit..._

Everything will be OK when he wakes up. He'll be able to go back, laugh with the others, see his brother and Francis and Yao off. And while those three are gone, maybe he'll have a chance to finally get his head sorted out. _Yeah...tomorrow..._

Someone somewhere calls his name, but Alfred ignores them. He is already drifting off, out of reach, dreaming of that tomorrow.

**Sorry for the OOC America, but this IS set during the tail-end of the Great Depression, so I figured that had to reflect on him a bit. Points to anyone who can identify the speaker of the 'turned the corner' quotation, by the way.**

**Just to let you know, if you're reading this then well done, you're half way through! Only two more chapters to go. Anyone have a favourite so far? Anyone else hating how much of a wanker Arthur is in this? (Sorry, he kind of turned out that way. I started this chapter writing Alfred as the douchebag instead, and then his mood-swing hit...)**

**I shall stop rambling now! Thanks for reading, and PLEASE REVIEW! **


	4. Join In The Fight

**A/N: Um. About the delay - yeah, I don't really have an excuse. This should have been up two weeks ago. Sorry. Maybe, just maybe, I should start typing my stuff up straight away, rather than writing it out first... :P Also, sorry for the length (it's longer than the entire GNF oneshot!) - although maybe the length could make up for the delay? I guess you guys are the judges! ANYWAYS, onwards with Canada's chapter (at last!)**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia. You will be the first to know if this situation changes.**

_Then join in the fight_

_That will give you the right to be free!_

Matthew Williams waits until his brother is out of the room, and then stands up. No-one asks him where he's going; no-one so much as glances his way as he puts his glass down on the bar and turns to follow Alfred. _Oh well. It certainly makes things easier, not having to explain where I'm off to. But it might be nice – just once in a while – to have to make excuses. _To have to say something like, "I'll just go and make sure that the drunken idiot doesn't knock himself out on the way." He's tempted to say it anyway, just so he can pretend that someone cares; but he knows he'd only be talking to the air, so he lets it go, and hurries away from the bar without a word.

_I don't know what you're up to, Alfred. But I've got a bad feeling about it, all the same. I know what you've got in your pocket. You think nobody saw you pick it up, don't you? But you're wrong._

_Maybe you lot don't notice me. After all, I'm only Matthew Williams, the third brother, the quiet one. Never mind that the one thing you bother to remember about me – my name – is the thing I hate the most. I'd give anything to be a Kirkland or a Jones, to be indisputably part of the family. And 'Matthew'? We never used to be so formal with each other. There was a time, Alfred, Arthur, when I was 'Mattie' to you. Remember that time, the boy I was then? Your kid brother, the one you used to take to the park, the one you used to read to and cook for and tease and comfort. Remember me? No, of course not._

_No, you never do notice me. But I notice things. I notice a lot more than you give me credit for. _Alfred's mood swings, for instance. They've been getting more alarming recently, which is why Matthew's so concerned about his brother right now. He quickens his pace as he pushes open the door into the passageway.

It seems like only moments ago that he was accompanying Yao down this same path. The injured man never once looked at him, even as he gruffly thanked him for pushing open the doors he couldn't; it was probably easier for him, Matthew reflects, to talk to someone he couldn't see, someone he could pretend wasn't there. Someone invisible. _I doubt he would have said anything to Arthur or Francis. Definitely not to Alfred. But maybe he felt he could talk to me because he knew I would only listen._ And listen he did, in increasing horror, as Yao detailed it all. He hadn't asked Yao anything, but his ally was clearly desperate to tell someone the truth. _I think he took my silence as evidence that I wouldn't pry like Francis or Alfred did, that if I _was_ curious I had the decency to hide it. That made me fair game, I guess – I hadn't asked, so I probably wouldn't tell._

_Well, guess what, Yao? You were right. _Matthew knows he won't be sharing Yao's revelations with the others; if he's asked, he'll stick to the story of the fight. _'Just family tensions running high, that's all,'_ he'll say, with a knowing look at an oblivious Alfred. _'We are on the brink of war, don't forget.'_

That thought brings the reality of the situation back to him. Fear of the looming conflict, concern for his brother, the terrible weight of the knowledge with which Yao has burdened him…it's almost too much for Matthew to take, and for a moment, overwhelmed, he has to stop and lean against the wall of the corridor. _OK. Deep breaths. Everything is going to be fine._

That's when he hears it. The sound that makes his blood run cold, wraps icy fingers round his heart. It's only faint, but there's no mistaking it.

His brother, sobbing.

_Alfred? It can't be!_ Matthew has seen the other man angry, and he's seen him upset, but he's never once seen Alfred cry. _He probably thinks that heroes don't cry, that it's weak or 'unheroic' or something to cry in front of another person._ He is struck by the awful thought that just because he's never seen Alfred cry doesn't mean it hasn't happened. _Oh God. Tell me I'm wrong. Please tell me you haven't just been hiding it, Al. I know you've been…unwell, but…_What if the illness has been worse all along than Matthew suspected?

Terrified by the possibility, he breaks into a run, desperate to reach his brother, to comfort him. But then he thinks of how Alfred will react if he does. _There's a reason I've not seen him cry before, isn't there? There's a reason he's in there alone, a reason he took himself off and left the rest of us to our drinks._

_He's ashamed._

The last thing Alfred will want, he realises, is someone interrupting him while he's in such a state. _He'd never forgive me. I guess I'd better wait a while, then._

Now he's closer to the sound he can hear it more clearly. The sobs are wild and uncontrolled, frenzied almost, and each one tears at his heart. He can't bear to hear his brother in so much pain; he clamps his hands over his ears to block out the sound of Alfred's suffering, but that doesn't make the reality of it go away. _That's my brother in there, hurting. Alone._

'_My own brother'._ Yao's voice comes back to him, laden with bitterness. Matthew doesn't want to hear it, but the only alternative is listening to Alfred's wrenching sobs, and he knows he isn't strong enough not to rush in where he isn't wanted; so he doesn't stop the scene from replaying in his mind, even though he wishes he could forget it altogether.

'_My own brother. I could almost understand it if it was someone else – it's not like I haven't made enemies in my time. If it was someone like Ludwig, for example…Or," he adds quite unapologetically, "Arthur." Matthew wonders whether Yao has forgotten, or simply doesn't care, that he is talking to Arthur's younger brother – either way, Yao ploughs on regardless. "If it had been Opium, that would have been different. But Kiku? I thought…I thought I knew him." He gives a mirthless laugh. "I was wrong about that. These past few years, he's…changed. He's like…like a completely different person. I mean, as brothers go we've never been especially close, not the same way Francis and Antonio were, for instance…" There is a wistful look in his dark eyes as he trails off, but it is quickly replaced by one of hatred. "I never dreamed he'd threaten Yong Soo like that, though."_

_Yao's face sets into a deeper scowl at the memory. "I can take a punch or two – " (here his mouth twists into a grimace, and Matthew__ realises__ with a sickening jolt that 'a punch or two' is hugely understating what the other man has been through) " – but if that bastard thought I was going to let him mess with Yong Soo or any of the others…" Trailing off again, Yao sighs and looks ruefully down at his bandaged arm. "I suppose the top of a flight of stairs is never a good place to confront someone. But I was scared, I was scared for the little ones. I had to do something. So I…" – he takes a deep breath – "I challenged him about it. I warned him that if he so much as lifted a finger to hurt any of our siblings, he'd have me to answer to. I'm the eldest, after all – I thought that would be enough. I wasn't expecting him to…to…"_

_It's obvious to Matthew that the memory is a painful one, that the older man is struggling to articulate it. He almost interjects to reassure Yao that it's OK, he doesn't have to talk about it, but then he__ realises__ that Yao probably wouldn't listen to him even if he did. And so he stays silent, torn between horror and, yes, curiosity._

_Yao stares blankly ahead down the corridor as if he sees not what's in front of him but what's in his mind. "One minute he was looking at me with this awful smile on his face, the next – it was so fast, I couldn't do anything – he had his hands on my throat, my back was against the wall…" _

_For the first time, Matthew registers the ugly bruises at the base of Yao's neck, the clear imprint of fingers, and he can't stop himself from inhaling sharply; fortunately, though, the horrified gasp is muffled by the squeak of the restroom door as he pushes it open, and by the grunt of thanks he receives from Yao._

"_I tried to throw him off, of course," Yao continues. "I'd always been stronger than him, I thought I'd manage. But…I couldn't shift him, even though I could tell he wasn't even using that much force." Yao hangs his head, ashamed. "The truth is he's got too strong for me. There's nothing more I can do to protect the others from him – I couldn't even protect myself." Matthew is startled to see tears spring to Yao's eyes as he continues. "It's not as if I didn't fight back. I was really tearing at him – he'll have trouble explaining those scratches to Iv- I mean, to Braginski. But nothing worked. My lungs were bursting, and I…I thought I was going to die. I thought he was going to kill me. And all I could think was, 'I'm sorry, Yong Soo. I'm sorry you were cursed with such a failure of a big brother. I'm so sorry.' But then…"_

_Yao takes a breath to steady himself, fight back the sobs rising in his chest. "I looked up at Kiku, and he had the strangest expression on his face. He was still smiling – and nothing in this world is worse than that smile – but…his eyes…He looked terrified. Like he didn't know what he was doing, or why. And suddenly he just…he just let go." There is a pause; Matthew can see that Yao is still confused by what happened._

"_I thought it was over. Perhaps he'd thought better of it, after all. But the bastard was just toying with me, of course. I collapsed, I couldn't help it, I was so weak by then – and when I looked up into his face again the old look was back, that crazy light in his eyes, and that _smile…" _Yao shudders, hissing with pain as the movement jolts his injured arm. For a moment he is silent, then – glancing at the floor – he mutters, "I…I don't really remember what happened right after that…" A shadow crosses his face, and for a moment the expression in his downcast eyes is unreadable; then the burning hatred returns. "Before he kicked me down the stairs, I mean." Another__ humourless__ laugh, which masks the sound of Matthew's shocked gasp. "That kind of thing can play havoc with your memory."_

_He pauses, and when he speaks again it is in a low tone Matthew struggles to hear; it is as if Yao is only thinking aloud. "I have no doubt the little bastard was trying to kill me. To punish me for daring to stand in his way. But it wasn't just my life he wanted to take; it was my dignity, too. The last shred of dignity that I'd been able to hold on to after everything he'd done, the monster…"_

_Yao says no more; his eyes are still fixed on the carpet, and Matthew is sure there are things the other man is holding back. But he doesn't ask. He doesn't even look at Yao, for fear he will see something of the answer reflected in the drawn face. He has no wish to know what other horrors Alfred's erstwhile friend has inflicted upon the long-suffering one he treats more like an enemy than an older brother. Already the image is seared into Matthew's brain: Yao lying crumpled at the foot of the staircase, his arm bent unnaturally beneath him, the hall floor covered in his blood…_

Blood. There is blood under Matthew's shoe. He wrenches himself back to the present to find that, somehow, he has unconsciously retraced his steps and is now standing in the restroom where he bandaged Yao's cut. _But how can there be blood on the floor? I cleaned up after I'd treated his hand, and anyway, there was never _this_ much, was there?_

Then he remembers. _Oh, SHIT. Alfred._

The nearest cubicle is locked, and in the gap between the wall and the floor Matthew can see his brother's shoe poking out. The blood rapidly spreading across the restroom floor is coming from that cubicle.

He almost slips as he hurtles across the room, screaming his brother's name. There is no reply, and when Matthew pauses for breath he realises that the restroom is silent; he can no longer hear Alfred crying. Beyond frantic now, he hammers on the door, begging Alfred to open it.

Still no answer.

Matthew hurls himself at the locked door, slamming into it with his full weight. Being of only slight build, at first he causes the door to no more than shake a little at the impact, and he begins to despair that his shoulder will give in before the door does. _Even then, I wouldn't stop. If I have to break my arm, if I have to break _both_ arms to get you out of there, so be it. _Luckily, though, the lock is a cheap one; it finally cracks, sending the door flying open and Matthew tumbling into the cubicle. He sprawls across the outstretched legs of his brother, who is slumped against the wall, eyes closed and face pale.

His mind goes blank with terror, and for several precious seconds all he can do is lie there, staring helplessly up at Alfred. What brings him to his senses is a sharp pain in his knee which stabs through the fog of panic. There is no time to investigate, though. _Alfred…Got to help Alfred…_

He scrambles back into a crouching position and reaches for Alfred's wrist, intending to take his pulse – but the skin under his fingers is slippery with blood, and he can feel the gash there. Already horribly certain what to expect, he turns over Alfred's other arm with his free hand. The same.

It's obvious what his brother has tried to do, but whether he has succeeded, Matthew doesn't know. _Please God no._ Holding the evidence in his own hands, he can't stop himself from wondering aloud, "Why, Alfred? For God's sake, _why?_ Why would you do this to yourself?" But the question is only wasting time that he doesn't have – that Alfred doesn't have. _You'll have some explaining to do if you – no. _When_ you wake up, _he corrects himself. Right now, though, speculation won't help his brother.

Matthew feels for Alfred's pulse again. For a few awful moments there is nothing, and he steels himself for a resuscitation attempt that he is terrified will be futile – but then he senses the heartbeat. Yes, it's weak. But it can mean only one thing.

_Alfred, Al, oh, thank God. You're alive, you're still alive. _And now he knows that it is there to be found, he can just about see the gentle rise and fall of Alfred's chest that tells him his brother is breathing. _Stupid,_ he berates himself. _You know you're supposed to check breathing first._ He also knows that this is not the time to dwell on his mistakes. He slings off the backpack he's brought with him and rips it open with such urgency that the bag's contents scatter. Tweezers, scissors, dressings…Matthew snatches up the roll of bandages before it lands on the blood-soaked floor; it's a little depleted, since he's already used some of the bandages on Yao's hand, but it should be enough. He hopes.

The cut on Alfred's left wrist is markedly worse, so Matthew goes to bandage that one first. As he takes his brother's arm, though, he feels the ridges below the gash, looks down to see the lines which score Alfred's skin from his forearm to above his elbow. It's difficult to tell through the blood, but Matthew guesses that some of the cuts are years old.

_So much for noticing things. How long, Al? How long have you been hiding this from me, from Arthur, from everyone?_

But this, too, is a question for later, when Alfred is safe, when his life is not bleeding out on the tiled floor. Choking back the guilt that threatens to overwhelm him at the sudden realisation of his own ignorance, Matthew focuses on preparing the tourniquet that he hopes will save his sibling. _Al, I'm sorry. This is dangerous. If I get this wrong… But it's not like you've left me any choice._ When that task is done, he turns his attention to the shallower wound in Alfred's right arm, not shocked – only saddened – to find the same record of pain carved into the skin there. He works quickly and skilfully, and when he is done he pins the bandage in place without needing to cut off any excess: he has used the entire roll on Alfred's injuries.

Matthew laughs; the only other option is to break down. "Seriously…if anyone else gets themselves hurt tonight…" he mutters as he stands, feigning irritation because anything is preferable to the tears that will otherwise well up unchecked.

His foot catches on something sharp, and he bends down to pick it up, assuming it is a forgotten part of his first aid kit. Instead, though, he finds his fingers closing around the shard of glass he saw Alfred slip into his pocket, the shard which he realises he must have been kneeling on all this time; its edges are bloody now. Matthew looks down at the unconscious form slumped in the corner, and drops the fragment into his own pocket with a sigh. _Guess I'd better take this with me, just in case. _He gathers his kit back into his bag, too, and slips his arms through the rucksack straps; he can't be sure Alfred won't wake up and – try again. _I'm not taking any chances. I refuse to lose you, Al._ He knows he shouldn't even be leaving him, not like this, but someone has to call an ambulance. Again he apologises silently to his brother.

Careful not to slip on the bloody tiles as he does so, Matthew hurries out of the restroom and heads down another passageway. _Thank God this place has another exit, so I don't have to go through the bar, _he thinks as he steps out into the night air. He can't let the others find out about Alfred. _I'll protect you, Al, I promise. Isn't that what brothers are for?_

It's fortunate, too, that there is a telephone box on the pavement right outside the bar. Rushing in, he almost shatters the glass in his haste to slam the door shut behind him; his hand shakes as he presses the button for the operator, and asking for an ambulance he has to fight to keep the tremor out of his voice. _At least he didn't ask me to speak up. Or repeat myself,_ he thinks sourly as he hangs up, then immediately feels guilty again. This is no time to be worrying about his own problems.

_Well, I suppose I'd better make up something to tell the others. They won't notice if I leave, but Alfred's absence will certainly bother them. _He heads back across the street and into the building, using the passageway rather than the main entrance so the others won't know he's been outside. _Even they might notice if I just walked in through the front door._

Matthew steps into the bar – and almost collides with Francis, who is making for the same doorway Matthew's just come through. Recovering, Francis straightens up, his brow furrowed in concern. "Matthieu? Are you alright? You were gone a while, _mon ami_."

Arthur, too, gets up from the bar and comes over to him. "We were starting to get worried about you. Francis was just about to come and check you were OK."

And from over at the counter, Yao – who turned round as Matthew entered – calls, "We would have followed you to make sure that drunk brother of yours didn't give you any trouble, but you looked like you needed to be alone." At the same time, the three of them notice the blood staining the knee of Matthew's trouser leg, and the blood he hasn't had the chance to wash off his hands and arms.

"Christ, Mattie, what happened?" Arthur exclaims, but Matthew is too stunned to answer. _And here I was thinking I was just being ignored again…_

Luckily, his brother rushes on without waiting for a reply. "What the _hell _happened? Do you need to sit down? Should one of us get a doctor? Did you hit your head, or –"

Matthew finds himself in the rare situation of comforting his eldest brother, who by now is in such a state of panic that even a soothing, '_Sois calme, mon cher_' from Francis doesn't help. "I'm fine, Arthur. I mean, it looks a lot worse than it is. I was running down the corridor to catch up with Alfred," – that much, at least, is true – "and I – I fell, that's all. It's just grazes, I'm OK, honestly."

Too late he remembers that the corridor is carpeted, that Yao will realise he is lying. Sure enough, the brown eyes meet his questioningly, and for a moment he fears that he will be forced to tell the truth. To betray Alfred's secret. _I'm sorry, Al, I tried._ Yao, however, says nothing.

Sending a silent message of thanks in the direction of his dark-haired ally, Matthew continues, "Anyway, I should get back to Alfred. I just came to warn you guys that I'm taking him home. He's –"

"– totally plastered?" interrupts Arthur with a grin. Hating himself for the lie, Matthew weakly returns Arthur's smile, and nods. "Sure you're alright getting him back to his place? You don't need a hand?" his brother asks, already starting towards the door; Matthew shakes his head as firmly as he can.

"It's OK, I can handle it," he says, turning to go. Then he remembers, and digs in his pocket for his wallet. He pushes a couple of notes into a protesting Arthur's hand; the sum is easily enough to cover not just his share – and Alfred's – but everyone else's too.

"Hey – you can't – as your older brother, I absolutely _forbid _you to –" Arthur splutters, but the mere fact of Matthew standing his ground seems to defeat him, and he trails off helplessly.

"Please, Arthur, it's the least I can do. Since neither of us will be there tomorrow," Matthew says, putting his wallet away before the astounded Arthur can gather his senses enough to begin arguing again. "Well, I'd best be off." He goes to shake hands with his brother, but instead finds himself in a hug of such ferocity he is briefly afraid for the safety of his ribcage. "Take care of yourself, Mattie. And try to keep Al out of trouble, will you? I won't be gone long, I promise. I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too, Arthur. Good luck," he mumbles, wincing, as Arthur breaks away scarlet with embarrassment at such a public and ungentlemanly display of emotion.

He turns to Francis. "_Courage_, _mon brave_," he says as they shake hands. "Stay safe."

"_Toi aussi,_ Matthieu," murmurs his friend – then, as Matthew tries to move away, gives him a sly peck on each cheek (which of course earns him another cuff from Arthur.)

Then Yao comes forward and awkwardly extends his unbroken arm, which surprises Matthew. The two men lock eyes for a moment over the careful handshake. Francis and Arthur, who are as usual engaged in something half-way between a fight and an embrace, are too busy to notice, but the exchange means a lot to Matthew. _You know I'm lying, Yao. And I'm sure there's something you're not telling me. But this is war, and there are bound to be secrets, even between allies. _Although neither man speaks, somehow an understanding is reached, a promise made that what each knows of the other's secret, they will not reveal, and what they do not know, they will not ask about. Matthew wishes Yao 'Good luck' and all the rest of it as he lets go of the bandaged hand, but the handshake feels like more than a formal gesture of farewell: it is an honouring of that tacit promise.

Matthew gives a final wave to the three others, then heads out of the room without looking back.

As soon as he's out of earshot, his walk becomes a run. _Shit. I should never have left Alfred alone in the first place, never mind for so long. I swear, Al, if you …if …_He can't allow himself to think it. _He'll be fine. The ambulance is on its way. All I can do now is stay with him._

Yet his chest is still constricted by fear, and he still exhales in overwhelming relief when, rushing to Alfred's side, he finds his brother still unconscious, but still breathing. _Hang in there, Al. Please._

He knows that Alfred probably shouldn't be moved in his condition, but the thought of the others hearing the ambulance crew arrive and working out what is really going on is one he cannot countenance. _Why is it that to risk hurting your pride seems worse to me than hurting you?_ he wonders.

_Perhaps it's because I understand how that feels. I have my pride too, and God knows it's taken enough knocks._

And so he gently gathers his unconscious brother in his arms and lifts him, expecting it to be a struggle; in fact, it is painfully easy. The past ten years of hardship have taken their toll on Alfred in more than one way. Carefully, he carries him down the passageway and out into the pleasantly cool air of the early September night.

The realisation suddenly hits – as he settles himself and his brother on the pavement by the telephone box – that the bathroom floor is still covered in Alfred's blood. _Well, it's too late to do anything about that now,_ he reasons. _I'll just have to hope that none of the others decides to pay a visit._

At the thought of the others he feels a stab of fear, suddenly aware of the uncertainty of what the future holds, not just for those three allies but for the rest of the world. Whatever happens, though, he knows he will see them again – and probably on the battlefield.

_Not yet. Not until you're a little better, Al. I couldn't just leave you._ _But nor can I let them fight alone – they're my friends, after all. This is my war too._

Strangely enough, he isn't bothered by the thought of putting on his old uniform and joining the ranks once more, even though he knows full well what the outcome could be. _I have a duty – a duty to my family and to my comrades. I may not be the hero or the gentleman, the warrior or the leader. I may not be the strongest fighter, or the shrewdest strategist. But I have a role to play in this, just like everyone else._

All his life he has been in the shadow of two brilliant elder brothers. _Now, at last, I can step into the sun, and show the world the real Matthew Williams._

So wrapped up is he in his daydream of glory that it takes him a while to notice that Alfred is stirring. He starts at the movement. "Alfred? Al?"

His brother opens one eye and looks groggily up at him, then down at his bandaged arms. Shock crosses his face as he remembers, and he crumples into Matthew's chest, on the verge of tears. "Oh, God, I'm sorry…That was so _stupid…"_

"Shh, it's OK. You're going to be OK. Shh," whispers Matthew, suddenly feeling very much like the older sibling.

Alfred is still staring down at the bandages. "But who…?" When Matthew doesn't answer, Alfred's eyes dart upwards, and meet his younger brother's for an instant before Matthew glances away. Alfred gapes at him. "You mean – you did this? You did this for me?"

A silent nod.

Alfred's expression of surprise softens into a smile – a weak smile dogged by pain, but a smile nonetheless. He reaches for Matthew's hand and takes it gently, tentatively, even though it's clear from the agonised slowness of his movements that the effort costs him.

"Thanks, Mattie."

**Couple of things before you ready the flame-throwers: I know this chapter contains almost no medical accuracy, so please, DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME. And sorry to make Canada come over all Dr. Williams - Canada as first-aider is a head-canon thing which comes from the fact that it's Canada (and Cuba) who helps the injured in Paint It, White (and also from Canada's healthcare system, which looks pretty awesome to me. Canadians, please correct me if this is no longer the case.) I haven't translated some of Francis' speech because the English equivalents are kind of rubbish (and translating 'Sois calme, mon cher' literally makes him sound disturbingly like David Cameron...)**

**Thank you to my two reviewers, SeraSearaSpin and wanyeqing. You guys are awesome! (Awkward if you now hate this chapter, but I guess - as Francis would say - c'est la vie :P ) Everyone else, feel free to join that awesome list at any time...**

**I'll shut up now! Thanks, and see you next time for the last chapter!**


	5. The Blood Of The Martyrs

**A/N: I am SO SORRY for the slow update! The last few weeks of school have just been insane, and I haven't been able to find the time to write. Oh well, the last chapter is finally here, so I hope it's worth the wait! (Don't hold your breath, it's Francis' chapter and I've never written France before :P) Couple of warnings - I've added two more pairings to the pile (both are only mentions of past pairings, and one is a real blink-and-you'll miss it mention, but I thought I'd better warn you lot anyways), and there's (reference to) character death. On that note, ENJOY! **

**Disclaimer: Do I own Hetalia? Nope. Do I wish I did? You bet!  
**

_Will you give all you can give _

_So that our banner may advance?_

_Some will fall and some will live – _

_Will you stand up and take your chance?_

_The blood of the martyrs_

_Will water the meadows of France!_

As Matthew leaves, Francis turns to his two remaining allies. "Well, _mes amis_, I suppose that means it is just the three of us." Usually he would not make such a remark (or any remark at all) without a sly arching of the eyebrow, a suggestive wink; indeed, Arthur fixes him with an accusatory glare before realising that for once his lover is above reproach.

That hard look in Arthur's green eyes hurts Francis deeply, although he masks his wounded feelings with his most charming smile. Désolé, mon chéri_. Of course you would believe me shallow in my affections; that is, after all, the role I have played all these years. What has the name of Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy come to mean but a rose on the pillow, a kiss on the cheek and an empty bed in the cold light of morning?_

_All that, it is behind me now. But I doubt you would believe me if I told you. I doubt, too, that you would believe my explanation for the years of casual love, for the affections that seemed to flow as readily as wine and to fade as quickly as the rosy alcohol-flush faded from my cheeks._

_That explanation is a simple one. _C'est toi, Arthur, c'était toujours toi. It's you, it's always been you. _I have loved you for a long time, but you rebuffed me at every turn. And every time, it was painful – _mon Dieu_, it was painful – but we are taught that we must not show weakness, and so I learnt to hide that pain. To hide it the only way I knew how, the way a rose covers its thorns with beautiful petals._

_It is easy to play at being a lover, so easy, when one is already in love._

He lets his gaze meet Arthur's for a moment; realising he has been unfair, the green-eyed man smiles (wearily, it seems to Francis) and allows Francis to take his arm and steer him back to his seat, trailed by Yao.

Their footsteps on the wooden floor echo too loudly in the almost-deserted bar. Francis knows full well that the room is only a small one, but to him now – glancing around in the gloom – it suddenly seems cavernous, and their figures pitifully small against the darkness. _Truly_, he thinks, _it is just the three of us._ The lover, the magician, and the dark-haired dark-eyed soldier, facing demons far worse than any Arthur could summon. _Not that I doubt your ability, _mon chéri, he adds silently.

It does not surprise him that they are alone. Ivan indicated weeks ago that he had no patience with them and would offer no support – not that this strikes Francis as altogether a bad thing. The tall man makes him vaguely uneasy, always has done, and he would feel no safer in an alliance with him. _At least as his enemy, I shall see the sword as it approaches. As his friend in nothing but name, I would not even feel the dagger in my back until too late; I would swallow the poisoned wine with a smile, thinking it a gift. No, fighting alongside Ivan and not against him is where the real danger lies._

Francis wasn't really expecting anything from Arthur's brothers, either. _Alfred won't get involved if he can help it; and where Alfred goes, or rather does not go, Matthieu will follow._ Yet it still saddens him to see their little group clustered around the counter, because it reminds him of those who are not here, who are perhaps gathered in another bar not so very far away, planning a different tomorrow.

At the thought of the day to come, bile rises in his throat. _I cannot believe it has come to this again._ He swallows hard, but the taste won't go away, and neither will the cold dread creeping through his body as he imagines the fight ahead._ Were this just the fear in a coward's heart, it would be easier to bear, _he thinks. But although Francis Bonnefoy is a man of many faults, cowardice is not among them. This dread, this soul-deep sickness, comes from the knowledge that when he takes up arms, his body will be there on the battlefield but his heart will not be in the fight. How could it be, when he is on the wrong side?

Ludwig Beilschmidt is, of course, the enemy; Francis loathes him with an intensity none of the others would understand. _Not Yao or Matthieu. Not even Arthur, and certainly not Alfred._ After all the wrong Ludwig has done him, he knows he could gun the man down without compunction. His companions, though, are a different matter.

_Can I really go to war against half my own family? _Mes petits frères? _My two remaining brothers, and my former best friend too?_ In his mind's eye he sees the faces of those brothers who now march for Ludwig's cause: Feliciano, smiling as always, and Lovino scowling. Then the image changes; the familiar expressions are distorted by hatred, and his brothers carry rifles in their hands, rifles which they now raise to the level of Francis' own heart. Another scene follows. Feliciano, chestnut hair matted with blood, eyes open and staring emptily, Lovino kneeling mute beside his brother's body…

Non! Ça n'arrivera pas, ça n'arrivera jamais. That won't happen, it will never happen. Desperate to drive the picture from his mind, to forget the pallor of Feliciano's skin and the helpless agony in Lovino's eyes, he seizes his glass and drains the beer he's barely touched all evening. _I don't know how Arthur can bear to drink this filth. _But it works; the horrors recede for a little while.

Noticing Francis' sudden change of heart, Arthur grins and turns to his lover. "See? I knew a man of your good taste would come to appreciate fine beer eventual-" The sentence and the smile die on his lips as he registers Francis' sombre expression, and after an awkward pause he tentatively reaches for Francis' hand.

Francis takes his hand gratefully, grasping it as if to steady himself. It calms him a little, this feeling of Arthur's familiar fingers in his, the gentle touch of his lover's roughened skin (for soft skin belongs to aristocrats, to the musicians and courtiers of previous centuries, not to soldiers like his Arthur). He squeezes Arthur's hand, but does not let go. The contact cannot quell the storm of doubt in his mind, cannot stop the faces of his brothers being joined by those of his one-time friends in the line of those he has lost to Ludwig's influence; he needs the link, though. He needs it to remind him whom he is fighting to protect.

Mon amour, et mon ami. My love and my friend. Two men who understand what it is to look upon one's own brother as the enemy. _It has been a long time now, Arthur, and tomorrow – although he will not stand alongside you on the field of battle – you will have Alfred's support. But I know, _mon chéri_, that you remember when things were different. When the blue eyes of the boy you had raised turned on you not in love but in anger, when he swapped childhood toys for weapons and raised those weapons against you. How could you forget?_

And then there is Yao. Bruised, bloody and taciturn. Yao, who has hardly spoken except to denounce his brother, the brother who put his arm in a sling. Francis sighs. _How can we hope to stand firm against this evil we face when our own family ties have been shattered? When a man can black the eye of his elder brother while his brother's friends look on and do nothing?_

The sigh prompts an offer from Arthur of yet another drink, but Francis declines, although it is a tempting prospect. (Not because of the taste – he longs for some good French wine instead of this lukewarm slop – but because of the warmth the alcohol will bring with it, the positive slant it will put on everything.) "_J'en ai déjà assez bu, merci._" I've drunk enough already, thank you. "Just because I can hold my drink better than you, _mon petit ivrogne_, doesn't mean that I want to wake up tomorrow with more of a headache than this war has already given me."

For once, Arthur doesn't respond to Francis' teasing. It is possible, of course, that he isn't aware what 'ivrogne' – _drunkard_ – means; but from his tired smile, it seems to Francis more likely that he does know, but is saving his energy for more important things. _I guess you would say that you were _picking your battles_, _Francis thinks wryly.

_If only I had that option. _If only he could devote himself to defeating Ludwig, and look the other way while his allies pursued their campaigns against his family and friends. _I accept that someone has to stop them, now they are under the spell of that _salaud _– _bastard – _Ludwig. But why should that someone have to be me? Why could I not leave Arthur to deal with them?_

He casts a glance at the man beside him – a glance which turns into a look of admiration. Arthur's blond hair (_les cheveux d'ange, _the locks of an angel, as Francis would always say) is still tousled from Francis' own ministrations, and a few strands have fallen across one holly-green eye. Unable to bear the thought of anything obscuring those piercingly lovely eyes, those noble brows, Francis reaches out to brush the hair back from Arthur's face. At the gentle touch, a sunset blush spreads over his lover's pale cheeks, a sight so endearing to Francis that there is nothing for it but to kiss him then and there.

He plants a hand on each of Arthur's shoulders, savouring as he does so the feeling of the taut muscle and the delicate sweep of bone beneath his fingers, and leans in intending only to give Arthur a light kiss on the cheek; but he finds his mind and purpose muddled, overtaken, by the delectable scent of the man he loves. A scent somewhere between mint and tea-leaves, and currently mingled with another: the aroma of the cologne Francis once gave him as a birthday gift in another effort to sway him. Surprised by the depth of his own desire, Francis slides his hands up Arthur's neck to cup that fine-boned face and draws the other man towards him with an undisguised hunger. As his lips meet Arthur's, the chaste peck on the cheek of his original intentions is forgotten completely. He feels Arthur start at the unexpected urgency of the embrace, and try to pull away, but Francis only tightens his hold, kisses him harder and more deeply. It is not until Arthur relaxes a little that he lets up.

The blush has spread down Arthur's neck, and Francis – gently now – follows its trail, touching butterfly kisses to the burning cheek, the jaw, the tender throat, the hollow behind the collarbone. In the heat of the small bar Arthur has removed his tie and unfastened the first two buttons of his shirt; Francis, slipping his hands first to Arthur's shoulders and then to his chest, wishes that they were alone somewhere so that he could undo the others, rip away the thin cloth barrier that is all that separates him from his lover's skin –

The slap takes him completely by surprise, and he stumbles backwards, landing hard and knocking his own seat into Yao's. Gingerly raising a hand to his stinging cheek, he looks up at Arthur in bewilderment.

"Don't you dare insult my king like that, you bloody Frog!" snarls Arthur, waving a threatening fist in Francis' face.

Yao, catching on, sighs and pulls Francis to his feet. "That's enough, you two. _Behave yourselves_," he says pointedly, tipping his head very slightly to indicate something behind him. Francis glances in that direction to see the barman standing in the doorway with his arms folded, suspicion in his eyes.

"Everything alright in here, gentlemen?" His voice is perfectly cordial, but his expression as he surveys the group is a cold one.

When Yao has managed to send the man away again with the assurance that everything is indeed alright and that he is not about to witness a brawl, Francis breaks out of Yao's grasp and fixes Arthur with a look that is equal parts confusion and reproach. "_Mon chéri_…?"

Arthur's blush deepens, and he mutters, "We're in public, you idiot. Remember? If we were to be seen – caught – " He trails off, his silence heavy with meaning.

The reason for the 'fight' is clear to Francis now. '_Je comprends, _Arthur." _I understand._ "I was forgetting myself. I was forgetting that men like us are…not welcome. And to be arrested the night before we are to go to war would be most inconvenient, _non_?" He is aiming for a light-hearted tone, but there is a deep sadness in his eyes, and more than a little bitterness behind the words. "I wonder sometimes if it would not be easier to be like you, Yao – " – here he turns to his dark-haired companion – "to be like others. But," he says, turning back to Arthur, "that would mean not loving you, _mon chéri_, and hard as it often is to bear, I know I could not live without that love."

Arthur's face is now positively scarlet. "Why are you saying this _now_?" he groans.

Without even bothering to check that it is safe to do so, Francis takes Arthur's hand, and looks his lover straight in the eye. "Because, Arthur, I might not get another chance."

Fear is chased across Arthur's face by a flash of fury. "Don't say that to me ever again. We'll come through this, understand? We have to."

_But at what cost?_ Francis wonders sadly as he murmurs again, '_Je comprends._' _How much evil in the name of good? How many more families, how many more friendships, how many more lives torn apart?_ As the three of them sit back down, he answers his own question. _Too many, of course._ He knows, though, that such sacrifice is unavoidable, that the consequences of doing nothing can only be worse. _There are those we must protect._

Francis glances regretfully at Yao. _Nous t'avons laissé tomber, mon ami. _We failed you. _Things haven't been right with Kiku for quite some time, have they? This isn't the first…fight you've been in._ It's been almost eight years, in fact, since the trouble began, at least by Francis' reckoning. _I guess we'll never know who really started it. But we should have taken more notice of that first argument, Arthur and I, and the rest of us. Perhaps we should have intervened. But Arthur wouldn't have it; Kiku was his friend, our friend, and he believed Kiku's side of the story. We both did._

_And now look at you._

He turns away, Yao's bandaged arm too uncomfortable a reminder of his own failure to protect his friend and ally. But that doesn't stop him from remembering the others.

Roderich, eyes clouded with shame, swearing through gritted teeth that it had been consensual. Svetla begging for the help that never came, the help that Francis was too scared to offer. Feliks caught between Ludwig and Ivan, unsure whom to fear more.

It is in Feliks' name that they march tomorrow; he and Arthur have pledged to protect the one they know could never protect himself. They have promised support to others besides Feliks – Herakles, Aleksander, Vladimir. _But this isn't about them, not really._

_This is about you, Ludwig Beilschmidt, and all the wrong you've done me. The evil you've inflicted on others is only a reminder of that. I look into Roderich's eyes and see my own shame reflected in them; I look into Svetla's, and it is not her pain and fear staring back at me, but mine._

_What kind of monster are you, Ludwig? Does it give you pleasure to know that you are feared, hated, reviled? Did it make you happy ripping my family apart – ensnaring Feliciano, little innocent Feli who trusted you and didn't know any better, and dragging Lovino down with him?_

Tomorrow's war, though, is only one of many reasons he has to hate Ludwig. _Two of my brothers march under your banner now. But where is my third brother, my best friend? Where is he?_

Il est mort, et vous l'avez tué. _He is dead, and you killed him. And it wasn't even your fight, _salaud. _Antonio was unhappy; he was struggling with himself, with his boss, with his place in the world. You used that distress; to you, it was a weakness, a weakness you could exploit. It became an opportunity to practice for the war you knew was coming – and to think that Feli followed you blindly into battle then, as he will in a few hours. _Francis buries his face in his hands. _I can't do this. I can't bury another of _mes petits frères. _I can't watch Lovi lose someone he loves all over again. _His fingers clench around the roots of his hair, nails digging into his scalp. Non, connard. You stupid bastard. _You don't get Feli too._

It is with slight surprise that he realises his eyes are dry and his shoulders are not shaking. _Peut-être qu'il ne me reste aucune larme. _Perhaps I have no more tears. _I shed enough at the funeral, after all. I shed enough over the body of my beloved _frère, _the one you shot in cold blood like another target on another training exercise. So many tears – and yet there is one whose grief is as heavy, and who did not weep._

He remembers with painful precision Lovino's face at the rushed service, how pale his skin seemed against the harsh black of his best suit, how little emotion was betrayed in his hazel eyes. _It was as if you'd simply…closed yourself off, Lovi. Like you were determined for nothing and no-one to get through to you. And to tell the truth, I don't think any of us tried too hard._

There were so few of them sitting there in the little church on that awful April day; just Francis, his brothers, and Arthur, who against the express wishes of his boss had stood by Antonio through the war (and who had once – a very long time ago, back when Lovino was a baby – been close to him the way he now was to Francis). Gilbert Beilschmidt, Ludwig's older brother and one-time friend of Francis and Antonio, was conspicuous by his absence; so too were those others who had stood with or against Antonio on the battlefield. Each of those who did attend was too wrapped up in his own grief to comfort the one amongst them who had lost the most.

_Not that grief stopped Arthur from telling you exactly what he thought of you, _mon frère. Raising his head, Francis looks sideways at his lover, his silver-tongued lover whose words are as often poison as they are honey. Arthur, still occupied with his drink, doesn't notice the hard stare Francis is giving him as he recalls the harsh words that were spoken. _Killer, he called you. Said you were to blame. Asked you how you even had the gall to show up at your so-called lover's funeral when you'd caused his death in the first place, you and Feli, by siding with Ludwig. But how could you have done otherwise? That bastard Beilschmidt had Feli wrapped around his finger; I know the decision tore you apart, Lovi, but in the end it was your _petit frère _you chose to protect._

And that's how things will be tomorrow. _The battle lines may be differently drawn, but once again Bonnefoy and Vargas stand on separate sides._

Mon Dieu, _let that be the only similarity, _he prays. _This time, let no-one fall. Not Feliciano or Lovino. Not Gilbert, not Kiku. And please – I beg you – please, not _mon chéri_, not Arthur._

Even as he sends the silent plea heavenward, he knows it is futile. _Perhaps I shall not lose them, not this time anyway. But what of the millions who won't be saved, the ones who follow our orders, who fight and kill and die for us? The ones whose names and corpses are lost in the earth that is stained scarlet with their blood? What of them?_

_I never asked for this, _he wants to scream. _I don't want men dying in my name, or dying by my hand. Hands that were made for holding you, Arthur, not for holding weapons._

_After so many years of trying, of waiting and wishing, I can at last call you mine – but are we to be allowed time for love? No, of course not. There is fighting to be done, _mon amour.

A bitter laugh falls from his lips, and both Yao and Arthur look at him strangely. He braces himself for accusations of drunkenness, for a smirk from Arthur and a snide comment along the lines of, 'Who's the lightweight now?' What he isn't prepared for is Arthur's hand on his on the counter. The concern etched into his face. The simple question, 'Are you okay?'

Non, _Arthur. None of us here is okay, or will be for some time, and you know that. _But he appreciates the gesture; it's another sign that Arthur cares for him.

_Signs and signals, questions and cryptic answers…being with you, _he muses as he whispers, _'Merci, mon cher, ça va très bien' –_ I'm fine, thanks – _is like learning a foreign language, one I haven't come close to mastering yet and probably never shall._

Arthur draws back his hand abruptly, afraid now of getting caught, but Francis barely notices; he is deep in contemplation. _You won't speak plainly. You're embarrassed by displays of emotion…Small wonder you and Kiku were such great friends, Arthur. You're very much alike._

_I suppose I'll never know what caused the rift between you. The same thing that took Gilbert away from Antonio and me – different hopes, different visions for the future? Gilbert's always been ambitious – draw a circle and he'll see the world in it, a world there for the taking. Was it ambition that drove you apart?_

_None of that matters now, _he scolds himself. What does matter is that he and Arthur and Yao are here, united for a common cause. That he loves Arthur, would be willing to sacrifice himself for him should the time come, and that Arthur at last loves him back.

His lover coughs and looks at his watch. "It's getting late, gentlemen. Should we be heading home?" He is already on his feet before Francis stops him.

"I think there is time enough for one last drink," he smiles. Arthur looks incredulous at the prospect of Francis willingly consuming something he was so ready to criticise earlier, but nevertheless he takes the remainder of Matthew's money and orders a final round before sitting back down.

Francis picks up a glass, and pushes away his stool. "_Je voudrais proposer un toast_," he says. _I'd like to propose a toast. _"It would work better with wine, perhaps, but in the circumstances…" He takes a deep breath, and, a little shakily, murmurs, "_Aux amis absents_." _To absent friends._ The others echo him; Yao's voice is as unsteady as his own, and he can't be certain but he thinks he can see a tear in Arthur's eye. "To each of us, and to Matthieu and Alfred _aussi_. But most of all…" Francis raises his glass, and looks around at his companions.

"_A la libert__é._" _To freedom._

…

Three glasses clink together. Two voices repeat the toast. One word hangs in the air like the bright note of a bell, and lingers in their minds long after it has faded to silence.

_自由__. __Zìyóu. _For Wang Yao, escape from a tyrant brother, and the chance to seek out the one to whom his heart is calling.

_Freedom._ For Arthur Kirkland, the death of painful memories and of the love that can no longer be.

_Liberté._ For Francis Bonnefoy, time for old scars to fade and new ones to heal, time at last to be a lover, not a fighter.

Under the same darkening sky, an ambulance threads its way through the streets of the city. Neither of its passengers speaks, but their minds are turned to the same matter.

_Freedom._ For Alfred F. Jones, the chance to leave behind ten years of pain, to learn to trust that happiness will last.

_Liberté._ _Freedom. _For Matthew Williams, a new identity and a new role to play on the world stage. No more waiting in the wings.

_Freedom._

Could this, each of them wonders, be the future that they bring when tomorrow comes?

**A/N: And there you have it, people. Hope it wasn't too hideous! I've translated most things, but if I've missed anything important, please let me know. Also my French isn't up to much so if you spot any errors do point them out! (That goes for general grammar errors too, although as a perfectionist I may die of shame when I find out I've made one...)**

**I'm really sorry about Spain, by the way. The event I'm referring to is the dissolution of the Second Spanish Republic after the Spanish Civil War - I guess this means Dark Spain (with General Franco as his boss) is wandering around somewhere in the universe of this fic, but let's not worry about that too much... The thing about other nations fighting for/against him (for= Republicans, against=Nationalists) is about the international volunteers on both sides of the war. I know my history isn't the most accurate, but I hope that doesn't get in the way of the story too much.**

**Obscure character names that I had to look up: 'Svetla' is Czechoslovakia, 'Vladimir' is Romania and 'Aleksander' is Bulgaria. Hope that helps!**

**Thank you so much (again) to my reviewers SeraSearaSpin, wanyeqing and Even. You made my day on several occasions. Don't suppose you'd feel like doing the same again? ;)**


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